


North Star

by jseca



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 05:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21351358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jseca/pseuds/jseca
Summary: 'Elio can still hardly fathom the idea that someone like Oliver, tall as mountains and golden as the stars, could ever reach down to so much as acknowledge someone like him.  And yet, when they kiss, open mouthed, dripping molten with the heat of the Italian sun and of Oliver’s touch, it all melts away, somehow makes sense.  How could he have lived without this?How will he live without this?'
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	North Star

“I would kiss you if I could,” Oliver murmurs; a quiet benediction, close enough that his breath does more than ghost over Elio’s lips, but whorls through the inches between them to pass  _ through _ . Elio can’t help but shudder silently at the intimate warmth, watching intently as Oliver’s eyes briefly, but pointedly, flicker downwards to his barely-parted lips. 

It’s too much; the gleam of desire in Oliver’s eyes, his smile that could ruin a thousand hearts and yet is, impossibly, Elio’s only to behold; his arms bracketing Elio into the corner of the barely-hidden space that is, for this brief eternity, theirs and theirs alone. It’s too much, and Elio cannot help but raise a hand to brush at Oliver’s side and cling gently to the fabric of his shirt as he leans forward the almost imperceptible distance left between them.

The sound Oliver makes is one Elio doesn’t think he could ever tire of; his quiet, incredulous, joyous laugh that communicates sentiments of ‘ _ I can’t believe you, Elio’  _ and ‘ _ Only you, Elio’  _ and perhaps one more that Elio doesn’t dare think, can’t even  _ start  _ to think of for the dam it would break open, all in one breath. 

To think, this morning he believed he had tired of this. In this moment he cannot fathom  _ not _ wanting Oliver.

Their kiss is appropriate to their surroundings: brief, chaste, not nearly enough, and over before prying eyes can interfere. As they part, Oliver spares a moment to glance into Elio’s eyes and breathes out a laugh once more at what he sees: the spark of desire that Elio can feel down to his very core blowing out his pupils wide enough that only a hint of blue iris beneath outlines them.

“Later,” Oliver murmurs into Elio’s ear in response, and for the first time Elio is glad to hear that damning word, as now it isn’t being used as a cold, unfeeling platitude, but as a promise of things to come. “Later.” 

Despite the cloying Italian summer heat, Elio shivers.

\-----

Once Oliver’s errands are complete, without having to discuss the matter they head back to the berm; to the promise of solitude and of sanctuary. To where it could feel like they have all the time in the world to explore this new and wonderful aspect of their lives, even if time itself may not grant them that luxury, in the end.

“What made you change your mind?” Elio asks despite himself as they sit on that same hill, absentmindedly pulling at the long blades of grass around him with one hand. The other is neatly tucked away in Oliver’s possession where it belongs, his thumb running gently back and over Elio’s knuckles. Elio can barely bring himself to look up at Oliver as he asks, fearing that he may be blinded yet if he does. 

“Hmm,” Oliver lets out a drawn-out breath as he thinks, staring up into the cloudless sky. “I wouldn’t say it was a changing of minds, necessarily. More that..,” he pauses, turning to look towards Elio with a small, knowing smile. “I wasn’t able to ‘reach out and touch.’” He’s quoting Elio from a few days ago, and Elio is torn between guilt and elation. He knows full well that he only said what he did to goad Oliver, and he doesn’t need to jump any mental hoops to know that Oliver knew it, too.

“That -,” Elio starts; fumbles. “I -.” He can never find the words when it comes to matters such as these. That wasn’t a lie. 

“It had to come from you,” Oliver continues, open and honest, relieving Elio of the need to speak at all. “That’s the truth of it.” He raises Elio’s hand to his mouth to kiss his knuckles in such a saccharine gesture that Elio would roll his eyes, were it not for the undeniable fluttering of his heart. “I’m so glad it did.”

Well, now Elio has to say  _ something.  _ He squeezes Oliver’s hand tight, scoots over a little closer. “I don’t regret anything,” is what he ends up blurting out, picking up a line of conversation from earlier, the reaches of which he hadn’t dared tread too far into before. Now he builds on Oliver’s words, Oliver’s touch, to find the courage to take the first step inward. “You said, earlier – I don’t.” He isn’t used to speaking so disjointedly, as if now he’s forcing his sentences through a decidedly Oliver-shaped mental block to form something resembling coherence.

“Mm?” Oliver responds, sensing that Elio isn’t quite finished; giving him the space he needs to let him compose his half of this manuscript. If Elio is the treble and Oliver the bass, then Elio simply needs to find the notes to harmonise and run together with those Oliver has already provided. Though they’re well versed in composing such pieces together, as proved by the prior weeks of easily flowing conversation, this is altogether something new. It might take a few attempts to find the correct key, the correct chord patterns, a suitable time signature, but once he’s found them – oh. 

“I know how I seemed this morning, Oliver, and – y’know, it’s.. I can’t even begin to tell you the sorts of things that were going through my mind. I’m sorry, I must have seemed, like..” He runs his free hand through his hair, grimacing as he remembers. “Callous, unfeeling. Kind of a brat. But..” and now he looks up straight into Oliver’s eyes, kind and knowing and desperately easy to lose himself in. There is nothing he can hide from them. “This might be the happiest I’ve ever been.”

_ Too far.  _ For a second, Elio panics, involuntarily tightens his grip on Oliver’s hand. He wants nothing more than to be able to take those words back, mentally chiding himself for allowing himself to fall too deep and give too much, a cruel juxtaposition to the confession of ‘no regrets’ he’s spilling – but then Oliver smiles his beatific, open smile, its rays of light shining straight onto Elio - as a direct consequence  _ of _ Elio - and he knows he made the right choice. How could any choice that leads to this pure, staggeringly beautiful expression of joy be anything but the right one?

“You don’t know what you do to me,” Oliver breathes, turning towards Elio to bracket his face with his hands, gentle, and with intention. 

It’s true. He doesn’t know at all. Elio can still hardly fathom the idea that someone like Oliver,  _ la muvi star _ , tall as mountains and golden as the stars, could ever reach down to so much as acknowledge someone like him. And yet. When they kiss, open mouthed, dripping molten with the heat of the Italian sun and of Oliver’s touch, it all melts away, somehow makes sense. How could he have lived without this?

How will he live without this?

\-----

Elio had always felt he could only steal glances at Oliver before, as he had drained glass after glass of apricot juice. He had been scared of getting caught staring hungrily at Oliver’s throat as he swallowed again and again, shamelessly indulging himself as if he had found the one lone oasis in a merciless expanse of arid desert sands. Caught by his parents; by Mafalda; by Oliver himself - no option was better than any other. 

Now, though.

Now, there’s nobody around save for himself, Oliver, their small slice of heaven and the early-evening setting sun, so he allows his gaze to linger as he had so badly wanted to before. Now, he wants nothing more than for Oliver to catch him staring; to glance over at Elio casually resting his arms against the cool brick of the pool, trailing his fingers lazily across the surface of the water as he stares and stares. For Oliver to see the effect he has on him. 

Indeed, after a moment, Oliver glances Elio from the corner of his eye as he’s nearing the bottom of the glass. A flash of adrenaline shoots through Elio at the sight. There’s nothing quite as thrilling or as terrifying as the moment you get something you had wanted so desperately.

“Like what you see?” Oliver jokes, running a hand over his mouth and setting the now empty glass down on the table. Feeling the heat rise on his cheeks, Elio flicks his sunglasses down from where they’re perched atop his head to settle into place.

“Something like that,” he says as Oliver slides back into the cool water, flipping himself so he’s able to start up a meandering back-stroke. He’s limited by the space available, but he has nowhere to go, and they have all the time in the world. Elio watches his movements up and down the pool as he continues to speak. “Who wouldn’t? It probably hasn’t escaped your notice, but the whole town seems enraptured by you.”

“I’m not sure whether it would be more arrogant to say I have or I haven’t,” Oliver replies measuredly, and Elio can’t help but laugh. 

“I’ve been a little jealous, honestly. The way they look at you.”

“Is that so?” Oliver stares up at the sky for a beat, contemplative. “Well, I can’t say I particularly care about them,” he says eventually, as if he were commenting on something as whimsical as cloud patterns and not turning Elio’s world further on its head with every word.

“Oh, really?”

“Yup.” Oliver rights himself in the water, standing to lean against the wall opposite Elio. Still, he’s long enough that he can still reach to brush Elio’s leg with his own. “The standard of conversation around here would be at a shockingly low average if it weren’t for you. You’re my equal; nobody else even comes close.”

Elio scoffs, grins wickedly. “And who says I’d claim the same about you?” Nothing but carefree banter; of  _ course _ he would. “Besides, nobody around here is drawn to you for your  _ intelligence. _ ” He pointedly lowers his sunglasses enough so Oliver can watch as he runs his gaze up and down the length of his body, raising an eyebrow as punctuation to drive home his point.

“Nobody but you.” Oliver’s rebuttal drives straight to the core of it. It catches Elio off-guard, and he has to stop himself from letting out some effusive display of emotion; from throwing himself at Oliver’s feet there and then, down in the water. No need; he already feels like he’s drowning, and he couldn’t be happier for it.

“Hmm.. a little column A, a little column B,” he says instead, pushing the dramatics away for the time being. Oliver doesn’t indulge him this time; does nothing but stare as if he’s trying to open a window to Elio’s soul, reach past the insecurities and get straight to the heart of the matter. 

“I..,” Elio murmurs eventually, pushing his sunglasses back up atop his head. “You’re right. I’ve never felt so  _ challenged.  _ In a good way, I mean. It’s like you know how to fill in the gaps; like we’re two halves of the same page. I’ve never -” he pauses. Just how honest does he want to get? What else can Oliver get out of him with nothing but a look? He lowers his voice, takes a step forward. “I’ve never -  _ Elio _ , I -.”

In the distance, the dinner bell rings out, snapping them out of this intimate bubble they’ve created for themselves and drawing an invisible line under their conversation. For a moment longer, Elio is unable to tear his gaze from Oliver’s, a million thoughts unable to truly manifest themselves swirling through his head. Oliver's hand reaches up to cup his face, his thumb running over the hollow of his cheek, followed by a soft, whispered,

‘ _ Oliver..’ _

And then he’s gone, up and out of the water. It feels like hours before Elio is able to breathe again.

\-----

That night, the first after Midnight, finds Elio suddenly nervous, indecisive. Given the events of the day, it seems utterly undeniable that he would do anything but choose to head straight for Oliver’s room; his own room. (But then, Oliver is inhabiting it so fully that it may as well have never been Elio’s at all, and may never be again. Echoes of Oliver will ring out for a lifetime in the dips of the mattress, the whispers in the walls, the slide of the door.) He surprises even himself when he hesitates, unsure. It seems almost born of madness; the two of them have spent near every waking moment together, touching, talking, simply whiling away the hours deep in each other’s company now that they’ve given themselves permission to do so. Why would he not choose to go straight to Oliver’s bed? 

His hand hovers inches from the bathroom doorknob. Things are different, under the cover of night.

_ Speak or die? Speak or die? Speak or di – _

“Everything alright?” The door swings open and Oliver’s voice cuts through Elio’s internal dialect like a knife, shattering his insecurities and his doubts in one fell swoop, replacing them with warmth and comfort and  _ home _ . It’s almost embarrassing, he thinks, how quickly Oliver can sway his mood one way or the other. How Oliver has been the central catalyst for the rollercoaster that is his mental acuity ever since he arrived on their doorstep in that blue billowy shirt. He’s smiling softly as he reaches out a hand to smooth over Elio’s shoulder ( _ that _ shoulder). “You wanna come in?”

Because, of course, it’s just that simple. 

Elio lets out a breathy laugh despite himself, releasing the tension and doubt from his body in one small exhale. Truthfully, he's still not sure how to do this; how to navigate these waters and find a clear path to that which matters most. When the waves rage, throw him off balance and mercilessly drag him two steps back, he sometimes feels he may drown in the pursuit. But he’s quickly learning: he needn’t worry. He has his north star; his constant guide to take his hand and lead him through to the bright and calm waters beyond. His Oliver.

“Yes, please,” he answers, as if there were any other, unable to keep from smiling as he follows Oliver through.

It’s the first time he’s set foot in this bedroom since the morning, and he can’t help but immediately recall the events of last night in shocking clarity. There was before, and now there is after; his world has shifted, leaving an imprint forever layered over the outlines of the room.

He throws himself down onto the bed in an over exaggerated gesture of playfulness, splaying out and grinning up at Oliver like he’s issuing a challenge. Maybe he is. Oliver laughs at the sight, his eyes sparkling in the low light of the Oxford lamp.

“Best jellyfish impression I’ve ever seen.”

“Hey, shut up,” Elio chides, grinning even as he pushes himself back up to mock punch at Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver tags him back, leading to a sparring match that ends, inevitably, with Oliver’s mouth on his, his hands on the mattress either side of Elio’s head to keep himself afloat. Elio’s arms wrap tightly around Oliver’s neck, the pads of his fingers pushing down and curling into the smooth curve of his back as he opens his mouth to Oliver; opens his very soul, it feels like.

There is nothing else like this.

After that, there are no words needed at all. They may still be learning their way around each other’s bodies, but in this moment they are truly able to discard of any final lingering awkwardness leftover from Midnight, no questioning of ‘ _ do you still want this _ ;  _ are you happy; can I be sure you won’t regret this.’ _ The answers are written plain as day in sultry, burning kisses, in the way their hands run through and bury desperately into the other’s hair, in the clench of a hand into the mattress as the sensations build and build.

_ How could I not; more than I’ve ever been; I’ve never been more sure of anything. _

This. There is nothing but this, and who’s to say where one starts and the other begins? It becomes impossible to tell who’s name is falling from who’s lips. It hardly matters to begin with; they are one and the same, joined at the mind by their erudition, joined in the tight clasp of their hands, joined and bound together as they convey through actions that which they cannot allow themselves to say. Oliver moves within Elio (or perhaps  _ Elio _ within  _ Oliver _ ), not allowing for an inch of breathing space between them, wound together as tightly as they are, and later they would swear - they would swear they could see stars.

They daren’t think about the encroaching future, of the ‘later’ yet to come, here. There is this, and this is now, and now is all they need.

**Author's Note:**

> This story, these characters, have taken hold of me and absolutely, stalwartly refused to let go. How could I not write fic for them? For what it's worth, this Elio and Oliver are 99% based on Tim & Armie's absolutely stunning portrayal of them in the movie. So is the setting; the implied gap between 'I would kiss you if I could' and the peach scene felt like more of a time-jump to me than the movie implies, which opened up the opportunity to explore how the rest of that day might have gone. So here we are.
> 
> This fic also hails my first ever foray into something even vaguely needing a mature rating, cuz that's just what those boys have done to me, I suppose. It's really not my forte as an ace person but hey, I tried to get artsy with it, lmao. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Drop a comment, let me know what you thought.


End file.
